Death's Keen Sting
by Strawberry-Green-Girl
Summary: In the midst of war, George Weasley feels what can only be described as his soul being ripped violently in two. He knows he wasn't attacked, so that can only mean... No, It can't be... Can it?  Non-Twincest   George-centric


_**Death's Keen Sting**_

War was raging. Curses were flying. People were screaming. George Weasley was running. He tripped around a corner, and his knees scraped the ground but he picked himself up and kept running. Death loomed around him as flashed of multi-colored light danced viciously past his eyes. George wasn't normally one to run away from a dangerous situation, especially the war, which he had insisted he stay and fight in the first place. No, he never ran away, but now… he felt like he had no choice. He and Fred had gotten separated back in the Great Hall and he had no idea where his twin was. Without Fred, he wasn't nearly as brave as he had always thought he was. Without Fred, he could not fight.

George pushed up the stairs to what looked to be the fourth floor. It seemed to be one of the few places in the castle that wasn't populated by Deatheaters, students, staff, and alumni fighting to the death. He was panting as he leaned against the stone wall, trying to catch his breath. As he struggled to keep his heart rate down to a steady pace, a dull, aching wave of pain passed through his entire body, beginning at his toes and ending in his skull. It must have been from all the strain on his body… the fighting, stress, and running had taken a toll on him mentally and physically, so surely that had been the cause of the aches. Then, a sharp, burning pain reverberated through his head. He hissed, and grabbed at the back of his head where the pain was strongest. He quickly scanned the area. There was no one around except for a Ravenclaw girl who was crying softly, nursing her wounded arm. As much as it pained him to see her in such distress, he couldn't bring himself to comfort her. There wasn't another soul around, so he couldn't have been attacked.

He pushed himself away from the wall. No more hiding! He was there to fight, and fight was exactly what he intended to do. With a deep breath, and an unseen parting glance to the poor Ravenclaw, he moved stealthily down each flight of stairs, willingly placing himself in the midst of what was sure to be certain death. He screamed curses at the top of his lungs, sending flashes of fatal circumstance hurling towards their unwanting recipients. The ground vibrated, and the sound of shattering glass and falling stone became prominent in the not-too-far distance. The rumbling stopped, the glass rained down, and then, George fell.

It felt as though his soul was being torn apart, like the very essence of his being was being ripped apart thread by thread by nimble fingers while agonizing flames licked his skin and burned away his flesh. For a long minute, he could not breathe. He had never in his life felt a pain as great as this, and he was sure the pain would kill him. When his breath returned, all he could do was scream in agony until his throat was raw and tears leaked subconsciously from his eyes. Then, without warning, the pain was gone. George didn't move from his spot on the ground, curled up, bits of glass and broken debris digging into the exposed areas of his skin. His breathing was weak and shallow. Had he been hit with the Cruciatus Curse? That was the only explanation…

He could hear gruff voices around him; Deatheaters, no doubt. With one final breath of confidence, George rolled onto his back and stunned the two nearest Deatheaters. He then rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up. He ran in a zigzag to dodge the hexes and killing curses, and threw out as many curses and jinxes as he knew. A flash of red hair caught his eye, but it wasn't Fred. As he got closer, he discovered that it was Percy. In front of Percy stood Ron, and next to Ron stood Harry and Hermione. They all stood motionless in a secluded corner near a suit of armor with looks of identical shock on their faces and grimy tear tracks running down their cheeks as they stared at the ground. George felt a pang in his chest before he even knew what they were looking at.

He followed their gazed to a motionless body.

His body was tense, but he moved slowly to the figure of his dead twin brother, his other half. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the shooting pain it sent through his legs. He was shaking violently, and all the unexplainable pain became quite clear. He had _felt_ his twin _die_. Broken sobs forced themselves up and out of his throat, and hot tears spilled over. He gripped his dead twin's cold hand desperately, as though he would come back if he squeezed hard enough.

Then, the smallest of smiles found its way onto George's lips, and for one fleeting moment, the body-wracking sobs became choked laughter. No, he wasn't going mad, and he was not in denial, but upon a closer look at his brothers pale face, he noticed:

The git had gone out with a smile.

**A/N- Well, that was my first ever sad story. I like to believe that Fred never died, but I really wanted to write this. I don't know why, but there it is. Hope it was satisfactory! **


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